


To Live and Die in Los Santos

by Bitch_In_The_Blue



Series: GTA Drabbles, One Shots, Outtakes, and AUs [9]
Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V, Grand Theft Auto: Vice City
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Assassins & Hitmen, Attempted Murder, Betrayal, Bodyguard, Coup d'état, Detective Noir, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, False Accusations, Female Protagonist, Femme Fatale, Film Noir, Flirting, Gang Violence, Military Backstory, Murder, Muteness, Mutual Pining, Opposing Sides, Smoking, Stabbing, Underage Drinking, au: lance vance is alive, made up name for 14, vintage lesbians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitch_In_The_Blue/pseuds/Bitch_In_The_Blue
Summary: Detective Warren Rivers, aka 'Lucky 14', is hired to investigate the alleged leaders of two rivaling Los Santos gangs.The Vercetti Family, run by the former Don's daughter and her bodyguard; and the Duponte Family with their police connections and enigmatic assassin.
Relationships: Agent 14 (Grand Theft Auto)/Online Protagonist, Original Female Character(s)/ Original Female Character(s), Trevor Philips/Original Female Character(s)
Series: GTA Drabbles, One Shots, Outtakes, and AUs [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/996552
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. Detective Rivers

_**WARREN ‘14’ RIVERS** _  
_**September 21st, 1946.** _  
_**9:07 PM** _

  
The gentle downpour outside was accompanied with the gentle sounds of the record player in the corner of his office whispering jazz to fill what little silence there was.  
Business closed for the evening, Detective Warren Rivers had yet to leave his desk. Instead, he poured himself another drink and simply listened to his surroundings.  
Another rainy night in Los Santos.   
  
And he had nowhere else to be.  
  
Might as well sleep here instead of his empty home.   
  
He smiled bitterly, eyes downcast on the glass of amber liquor, idly swirling it around and raising it to his lips-  
And froze when there was a knock on his door.   
He raised his gaze to the window panel, seeing a dark silhouette on the other side.   
… Shit.  
Warren rose with a resigned sigh and stepped around his desk to the door.   
He cracked it open just enough to see who was on the other side and tell him the office was closed- but that changed when he saw an older woman on the other side of the door. Dressed in black.  
"Detective Rivers?" She asked.  
"That's what the door says," he replied.   
"Can I come in?" She added. "I came from all the way across town because I'd like to hire you."  
… _Shit_ . He didn't really want to take on a case this late at night. Especially since there wasn't time to do anything with it tonight. But the worried look on her face told him he should at least let her go home with peace of mind.   
"Come in," he stepped aside for her to enter, and closed the door behind her.   
"My name is Loraine Esposito," she told him.   
"Esposito," Warren noted and sat back behind his desk. "I've heard that name."  
Loraine removed a case of cigarettes from her purse and lit one up. "It was in the papers last week. My husband, Richard, was murdered."  
Ah. Right.   
He'd read that case- police had already backed off from the investigation and called it an accident. But the widow was suddenly here calling it foul play.   
"You're sure it _wasn't_ accidental?"  
"My husband would never _accidentally_ tie himself to the pier and drown in high tide, Detective."  
Whoops. Missed that detail when he skimmed the article. “Who would murder your husband, Ma’am?” He fished a notepad and pen out of his desk drawer and started jotting down the details in shorthand.  
“My husband owned the jewelry store on Dorset Avenue,” Loraine began. “Then this brute-- this terrifying man came into the store two weeks ago and told my husband he would need to pay protection money so they’d be safe from the Vercetti Gang.”  
Warren frowned, looking up from the notepad. “The Vercetti Gang doesn’t run in Los Santos. Just Vice City.”  
“It’s what he said,” Lorraine shook her head, blinking back tears in her eyes before taking a drag off of her smouldering cigarette. “I was there. I distinctly remember him saying ‘Vercetti’. And then a few days later, he came back with a few more men and they smashed up the store. They told us if we went to the police, they’d burn the whole building down. Then Richard went missing and...” She trailed off into tense silence. Trying to hold herself together. The rest of the story was obvious.  
Warren pursed his lips and wrote ‘VERCETTI’ in all caps, circling the name for emphasis. Many people had heard of Tommy Vercetti, ‘The Harwood Butcher’ from Liberty City. The man must’ve had a further reach than the cops knew about.  
“Can you describe the man you saw?” Warren asked.  
“He was tall,” Lorraine said. “Losing his hair… And he dropped this...”  
She reached into her pocket, and removed a matchbook for a burlesque club.  
  
  
**_September 21st, 1946._**  
**_10:00 PM_**  
  
Something about this seemed interesting, so Warren left for the club when Loraine had gone home.  
After tonight, he would investigate in earnest.  
The Unicorn Room was moderately populated tonight.  
Cocktail waitresses moving between the tables and serving drinks and cigars to patrons who were ogling the woman performing center stage. Music filling the air so that any and all conversation had to be spoken loudly to be heard.  
Warren moved his way toward the bar.  
Behind the counter was a young black woman helping to serve drinks.  
“Excuse me,” Warren approached her. She looked up from her mixture as he leaned against the bar. He dropped the matchbook onto the counter. “I’m looking for Tommy Vercetti.”  
“Mr. Vercetti passed away a few weeks ago,” the woman flatly replied.  
Who was running the protection racket then? “Can I talk to who’s in charge after him?”  
The woman looked aggravated.  
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”  
“It’s not ‘Sweetheart’,” she told him through a grimace. “That’s for _damn_ sure.”  
“This guy bothering you, Avalon?”  
Warren looked to the end of the bar to see a tall man with thinning hair on standby. Intimidating, to say the least.  
Quite possibly the man Loraine had seen.  
"I got it handled, Trevor," the barkeep, Avalon, replied before looking back at Warren. "If you're not going to order a drink, you're going to have to move along."  
Warren took that as a warning with how 'Trevor' watched him like a hawk.   
"Alright," Warren said. "Old Fashioned." He set his badge on the counter. "And a chat with whoever runs the place."  
Avalon's expression didn't shift, but her movements became stiff. She looked at Trevor again, and he nodded before walking away.  
  
Warren waited as his drink was made, noting that Avalon disappeared soon after. Replaced by one of the young men who seemed to stand guard over the ladies who worked there.  
He turned to the stage and observed the scantily clad woman performing strip down to even less.  
“Detective,” A voice at his side greeted.  
He turned his attention to see a girl no older than twenty. Pretty. Well dressed, hair neatly done revealing a pair of dazzling pearl earrings framing her face.  
“Ma’am.”  
“You asked to speak to the owner,” her expression was overall neutral, but he could see suspicion in her eyes. The face of a liar.  
"Are you taking me to him?" Warren asked.   
"I will," she flatly replied. "If you tell me what your visit is in regards to."  
"Concerned housewife looking for her husband," he replied. Only a half-truth. Just enough to be believable.  
The girl looked around the men in the establishment. "Take your pick. I'm sure plenty of these _fine gentlemen_ have wives at home waiting for them."  
Warren chuckled at that and quickly finished off his drink. "Can I talk to the owner yet?"  
She paused, seeming to debate. "Follow me."  
  
Beyond the booze and nudity of the Unicorn Room was a near silent office space that closer resembled a library. Books lining the shelves behind a large oak desk and leather chair. Expensive.   
Whoever was deep enough in Vercetti’s good side to earn all of this must’ve been a tough customer. He'd have to carefully word his questions- or else they may assume he knew more than he did.   
"Excuse me for a moment," the girl said before leaving the office. Presumably to get the boss.   
Warren took a moment to examine a small seating area. An armchair, a small table with a book resting on its surface. Something about marine life.  
He picked it up to look at the dog-eared page. Illustrations of squids and octopi.   
Interesting choice of subject matter for a burlesque club owner.   
The door opened again, and the same girl re-entered. Accompanied by Trevor.   
Warren waited for her to say the boss was coming- or for Trevor to address him.  
Instead, _she_ sat behind the heavy desk in the expensive chair. Trevor at her side like a guard dog. Arms behind his back, with the discipline of a soldier.   
"Which man is that 'concerned housewife' looking for exactly, Detective Rivers?" She asked. Expression unchanged. No indication of anyone else coming.   
" _You're_ the owner?" Warren asked.   
"I am," she confirmed through the ghost of a smirk.. Knowing clearly that she wasn't what he'd expected. "Rosa Salamanca," she introduced herself.  
"Well, Ms. Salamanca," he began, taking the matchbook out of his pocket and holding it up. "I'm here on behalf of the widow of Richard Esposito. She claimed to have seen her husband be extorted by the 'Vercetti Gang'. And this matchbook was left behind after one of their visits. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"   
Neither she nor Trevor reacted. "The Vercetti Gang works out of Vice City," she deflected. " _Very_ far away from Los Santos."  
"You seem to know a lot about them," Warren noted.   
Rosa put her hands on her desk. "Everyone’s heard of the Harwood Butcher and his gang," she told him. "But in Los Santos there's also the Duponte Family, isn't there?"  
Warren had heard plenty about them- yet they managed to stay off of the law’s radar.  
Either they were bribing the cops or they were so good at what they did that the cops didn’t even notice. Even their victims stayed quiet. Not a single victim’s associate came to him either.  
“How do you know it wasn’t the Dupontes _posing_ as the Vercettis?” Ms. Salamanca suggested.  
Unlikely, given how sloppy the work was to be traced this far.  
But not impossible.  
“They own the Diamond Casino, from what I’ve heard,” she continued. She drummed her nails on the surface of the desk, like he was wasting her time with his presence. “I’d suggest you start there. I’d also suggest you be careful with who you speak to while you’re there.”  
Warren took this as a signal to leave, and nodded a goodbye before heading toward the door.  
“Oh, and Detective,” Ms. Salamanca called after him just before his hand touched the doorknob.  
He turned back to her to see apprehension. The first facial expression she’d made since meeting.  
“I believe they may have targeted my club; and _me_ , by association. Someone attacked me a few nights ago. I barely managed to fight him off.”  
“You didn’t go to the police,” Warren guessed.  
“What would they do if I did?” She asked in reply.  
Not a damn thing. That’s what the police would do.  
“I’ll see what I find,” Warren told her. “Keep yourself out of trouble.”  
She gave him a thin, hollow smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”


	2. Don Vercetti

**_TOMMIE VERCETTI "ROSA SALAMANCA"  
_ ** **_September 12th, 1946.  
_ ** **_7:42 PM  
  
_ ** She passed the time by studying the ocean. Always did. She wanted to travel and learn the world-- It was something that received criticism as 'too ambitious' for a woman her age, but that wouldn't stop her. She didn’t want to settle down and have children.  
She was twenty four, as of today.   
A quiet day of celebration- a phone call from her mother and she treated herself to a bottle of champagne.  
Nice, overall.   
But a little too solemn now that her father had passed and left her the family businesses.  
Tommie’s gaze left her book and she stared out the window at the night when the thought came to mind.   
She wasn't particularly close to her father, but to leave everything to her...  
A knock on her door. "Ms. Vercetti?"   
"Come in!" She called.   
Trevor entered quickly. “Reading again?”   
“Always,” she nodded, dog-earing the page in her book and setting it down. She turned to him and noticed his arm behind his back. “What do you have?”   
“Nothing,” he smirked. “Might be a birthday gift, might be an empty hand.”   
She smiled. She always appreciated his humor. Too many of her father’s associates had no sense of humor. Least of all toward someone they saw as their lesser. It had been three months since Trevor was hired as her bodyguard- and they grew on each other quickly. “So which is it?”  
He held out both hands, both empty. “Empty hand.”   
Tommie rolled her eyes and smiled. She left her seat to place her book back on its shelf. “Hilarious.”  
“My hands are empty, not my pockets,” he added, following her toward the shelves and fishing a small box out of his jacket, which he presented to her when she turned to him.   
Tommie gave him a curious look, and took the box to open it.   
Inside, a set of pearl earrings.   
Her brows raised, and she inadvertently drew a small gasp.   
“You hate ‘em,” he said through dry sarcasm.   
“They’re beautiful. Where did you find them?”   
Trevor looked pleased by her reaction. Always out to see her in a good mood. “Saw ‘em out on a job and I figured they’d look nice on you.”   
She smiled widely, closing the box with care- as if they were fragile. “You spoil me.”  
They silenced for a moment, simply looking at each other in the moment- before Trevor withdrew. Suddenly very aware of how close together they were and how out of line it was. “Nice girls deserve to get spoiled.”   
Tommie came out of the moment as well, feeling like she’d drunk more than one bottle of champagne that day. She moved over to a mirror on the office wall, where she put the new jewelry on and pulled her hair behind her ears to show them off. “Let me know if you see any nice girls. These are mine until then.”   
She spotted him watching her in the mirror, and he turned away when caught.  
He did that often.   
Tommie opened her mouth to say something, but a knock on her office door made them both turn toward the sound as her caller entered.   
Avalon, her silent partner for the club. Avalon was Tommie’s eyes and ears for when she wasn’t at the Unicorn Room. She also was in charge of executive decisions in Tommie’s absence, for a generous pay cut.   
“Some men who worked with your father are here,” she said. “They told me they want a word with you. Should I let them up?”   
“Who’s here?’ Tommie asked.   
“Lance Vance, for one,” Avalon said. “The other I don’t recognize but he’s keeping close by Mr. Vance.”   
Tommie and Trevor exchanged looks. If Lance himself came, this was something serious.   
After all, he had been the one to deliver the news of Tommy’s death.   
“Let him up,” Tommie said. “Just him.”   
Avalon nodded, and headed back downstairs.   
Lance appeared in her office next.   
Tommie was behind her desk, Trevor at her side. “Evening, Lance.”   
“Tommie,” he greeted with a nod, hands in the pockets of his long coat. “Came by to bring you something.”   
“You didn’t need to bring me a birthday gift,” she replied.   
“You’re gonna want this one,” he fished a letter out of his pocket and set it on her desk.   
Tommie gave him a curious look, then pulled the paper closer and unfolded it.   
The room was silent as she read, and Lance knew she’d gotten to the important part when her expression visibly changed into shock.   
She looked up at him. “This is real?”   
“It’s real,” Lance nodded. “That’s his handwriting.”   
Trevor didn’t like being in suspense. “What is it?”   
  
There was a 'coronation' of sorts the next evening.   
Tommie, dressed in black, kept silent and pensive during the drive home from the designated meeting place. Trevor at her side, equally anxious.   
To put her as the head of the gang after just a quick rundown of operations.   
In her twenties, with no experience in running an organization like this.   
A woman, who would have to work thrice as hard for the respect her father commanded.   
It was obvious from the skeptical sneers and mutterings during the meeting. Tommie wasn’t respected simply for her sex and her age. But her father had trusted her to run the family correctly- that had to count for something.   
“Do you think I can do this?” She broke the silence, asking softly, eyes fixed on her hands in her lap.   
Trevor shrugged. “You’ll likely do better than anyone else.”   
“We’ll see.”   
  
  
**_September 19th, 1946._ ** **_  
_** **_11:38 PM_ ** **_  
_**   
The club was closing now that it was nearing midnight.   
With the last drunk patrons being escorted out, all that remained inside the building were the workers.   
Tommie left her office to go downstairs to the bar. Trevor was still upstairs, preparing to take her home for the night.   
She settled into the seat beside Avalon- who already had a drink in hand.   
“What’s it like being the boss for real now?” Avalon flatly asked.   
“Other than the complete and utter lack of respect for things I can’t control? It’s alright,” Tommie shrugged, reaching for the bottle beside Avalon’s glass and drinking straight from it.   
“You’re not suddenly gonna leave us here, are you? Go to Vice City and run the family from there?”   
Tommie shook her head. “I have no reason to leave Los Santos. I can run the family here.”   
Avalon looked over at her. “You’re not worried about the Dupontes?”   
“Why worry? We’re a bigger gang than they are. Bigger name. Bigger reputation.” Tommie took another pull from the bottle. “They cross me, I’ll go at them myself.”   
“You sound like your daddy.”   
“Tell that to the others.”   
Avalon chuckled and finished off her drink, pushing the glass toward the back of the counter for the other barkeep to handle. “You can handle it.”   
“What are you up to tonight?” Tommie asked her. “You’re in a strangely good mood.”   
“Meetin’ a girl,” Avalon replied, standing up from her seat and straightening out her dress. She’d changed right when the doors closed. “Wish me luck.”   
Tommie managed a smile as Avalon left through the back. She’d known for a year or so now that Avalon preferred women. Tommie didn’t consider herself to be completely sold on only liking men either, so she could understand.   
She kept that quiet for her, and promised safety at the Unicorn Room under her employ.   
She finally met someone. Good for her.   
“Ready?”   
Trevor’s voice behind her got a glance in reply.   
“Just about,” she set the bottle down after one last drink, and got up to follow him toward the back of the building. The remaining employees would lock up for the night.  
  
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Trevor said.   
He dropped her off every night, and picked her up every morning from her home in Rockford Hills.   
"Of course," she stepped out of the car and pulled her jacket tighter around herself against the late night chills before turning to him. "Thank you for the ride."  
"You don't have to thank me every time," Trevor told her. "It's part of my job."  
"Are you gonna stop me?" She asked, unable to fight back a smile.  
Trevor couldn't keep a straight face either. "Guess I can't. You’re the boss, after all."  
Another quiet, warm moment. Nothing needed to be said to know that this was right.  
Yet it was still cut short.  
"G'night," he said.  
"Night," she nodded. "Get home safely."  
She tapped the side of the car and he drove off. He didn’t live far away. Thankfully.   
She watched him disappear down the street, biting her lips together to force a straight face, and eventually turned to her apartment building to enter.   
  
She lived on the tenth floor. Alone. In the lap of luxury, thanks to her family’s wealth.   
The elevator let her out on her floor, and she turned her key in the lock when she reached the door.   
  
Except it only turned halfway.  
Already unlocked.   
  
“ _What the fuck_ …” She muttered under her breath, turning the key in the opposite direction and hearing the click of the lock engaging. Then turning it back to hear it unlock once more.   
Did she forget to lock her own door before she left for the night?   
She pushed the door slowly open.   
Dark inside.   
She reached for the light switch without crossing into the unit, and the lights flipped on to reveal-- nothing.   
Nothing missing, nothing had been moved.   
Tommie breathed a sigh of relief and entered her home, closing herself in and heading for her bathroom to clean up before bed.   
  
She flipped the lights on, wincing against the brightness of bulbs reflecting on white tiled walls and floor.   
When her eyes adjusted, she began removing bobby pins from her hair and setting them on the counter, humming an arbitrary tune under her breath.   
Her hair dropped over her shoulders when it was no longer supported, and she paused to pull one side behind her ear- to admire the earrings once more.   
She smiled to herself. Trevor was rough around the edges, but-   
A quick blur of motion in her peripherie, and a rope was pulled around her throat to cut off her ability to breathe.   
She caught a glimpse of a man in the mirror as she was pulled further into the bathroom and dragged toward the floor. In sheer panic, she tried to pull the rope away from her neck and shove the man back against the wall, vision blurring from primal fear, unaware of items being knocked off of any surface theyn neared.   
She remembered her weapon.   
She briefly released one hand from the rope to brandish the switchblade she kept in her pocket- and released the blade to stab blindly at her assailant over and over- until he was forced to release her and fell to the floor.   
Unable to stop to think or even take a breath, she dropped to the floor to stab him several more times, until he stopped moving. Until blood pooled on the tiled floor.   
She didn’t even realize each breath she drew was exhaled as screaming until her voice went hoarse and her throat burned.   
One final blow, and her bloodied hands slipped right off the handle of the switchblade as she tried to pull it out of the stranger’s chest, and she absently scooted across the bathroom floor away from the body. Hyperventilating. Shaking.   
  
Alive.  
  
  
 ** _September 20th, 1946_** ** _  
_** ** _12:40 AM_**  
  
It proved difficult to dial Trevor’s phone number with shaking hands.  
But he came quickly. No complaints, no questions asked.   
Neither of them recognized the dead man, so it could be assumed that he was affiliated with an enemy.  
“It’s the fucking Dupontes,” she quickly said. Admittedly still coming down from hysterics. Fidgeting, trembling as she lit a cigarette with blood stained hands from where she sat on the ledge of her bathtub. The blood had pooled around her shoes, and she didn’t seem to care. “It has to be. I _just_ took over as Don, who else would-”  
“We’ll take care of it,” Trevor insisted, looking her over. No injuries, save for some bruises and a clear purple line across her throat. Even in her panicked state. She’d asserted that she was _no one’s_ victim, no matter how young and vulnerable she appeared to be.  
He admired that.  
“How are we gonna take care of it?” She asked pointedly. She took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled smoke with a huff.   
“First is the body,” Trevor shrugged. “I’ll call Vance and get a cleanup crew. Then _you_ decide how we go from there.”  
Tommie’s knee bounced, accentuated by sticking noises of drying blood underfoot. Knowing that she was in absolute control had steadied her. At least a little. “... I know where I want to go from there.”


	3. Le Spécialiste

**_RAVEN ‘NONA’ DUPONTE_ ** **_  
_** **_September 21st, 1946_ ** **_  
_** **_9:07 PM_ **  
  
Another rainy night in Los Santos.  
She had to abandon her umbrella when she followed her victim into the alley. Easier to stick to the shadows when your silhouette didn’t protrude.  
Poor idiot didn’t see it coming. He probably should’ve.  
The family had marked him a week or so ago- and she chose to work slowly. Let him sweat it out and then get complacent. Never failed.  
She turned the knife under the rain, allowing the weather to wash it clean before she replaced it in its holster-- on her thigh where her skirt could conceal it.  
She quickly straightened out her clothes and carried on strolling through the alley.  
A car pulled up on the end as she approached- her associates, who helped her lead their victim toward the alley.  
“You got him?” Auri asked as soon as she entered the vehicle.  
Raven nodded affirmation, and took her glasses off to wipe the water off of them.  
“You must be freezing,” Mr. Graves told her, glancing in the rearview mirror before staring down the road. “Mick, give her your coat.”  
Mick was already working on taking it off as their driver suggested it, and he wordlessly passed the warm garment to Raven.  
Raven nodded her gratitude as she wrapped the coat around her shoulders. She pulled back the hair stuck to her forehead and put her glasses back on. More than excited to take a hot bath and put on some dry clothes when they got back to the Diamond.  
Where their pay would be divided amongst them.  
  
  
 **_September 21st, 1946_ ** **_  
_** **_9:53 PM_ ** **_  
_**  
The others kept downstairs in the casino while Raven went up to the penthouse.  
With her parents visiting, it would be easy to report the team’s success and collect payment.  
What she hadn’t expected, was to find her brother present as well.  
“-getting harder to tell the other officers that I have nothing to do with the family,” Officer Francis Duponte explained to their parents, Chandler and Regina, as Raven approached the penthouse’s lounge. “They see the name and start making assumptions as is.”  
“Duponte isn’t exactly an uncommon name,” Regina tried to justify. “Spell it differently if you have to.”  
Francis sighed and turned to see Raven just as she entered. “What happened to you? You look like a drowned cat.”  
“Is the job done?” Chandler, Le Caïd, spoke up, looking toward Raven from where he’d been seated with a glass of wine.  
Raven nodded and drew her finger across her throat. Mimicking her kill.  
“Good girl,” Chandler nodded.  
“Jesus,” Francis sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Who was it now?”  
“Just a rat,” Chandler idly replied and swirled his wine in the glass. “You know what to do.”  
Francis begrudgingly nodded.  
Their only son and youngest child, a cop.  
Though his position _did_ grant them certain liberties. Evidence went missing or never appeared at all. Alibis were falsified. The LSPD kept their eyes off the family, and off of the Diamond.  
Francis let out a tired sigh and turned to leave, passing Raven and muttering ‘I hope _you’re_ happy.’  
Raven gave him an apologetic look in passing. She knew he hated the way things were. But the family came first, even _he_ understood that.  
“Topolina mia, you’re _soaked_ through,” Regina told her, a motherly look of concern on her face. “Why don’t you take a nice bath and we can talk more?”  
Raven shook her head and waved off the idea. Business first, then she would get comfortable.  
  
  
 **_September 21st, 1946_ ** **_  
_** **_11:20 PM_ **  
  
When business was concluded, she bathed and put on clean, warm clothes.  
Comfortable and now finished with dividing pay, she went down to the casino to find her friends.  
One by one, she slipped them envelopes with their cuts. She found Auri by the roulette tables, Mick standing outside the manager’s office, and Graves at the bar.  
Because Graves was the only member of the team with a wife, daughter, and infant grandchildren, he was the first to go home.  
  
The point of casinos not having any windows was so the gamblers inside would have no idea how long they'd been playing the games.  
With how profits kept flowing in, it was safe to say that it worked.  
Raven sipped her glass of champagne at the bar and watched a nearby roulette table clean out its customers.  
More revenue. Always more revenue.  
"Ms. Duponte, there's a detective here asking questions." Raven turned in her seat when she was addressed by Tom Connors, the casino's front desk manager. “I wanted to consult you on your preferred method of seeing him out”  
A detective. What business could he _possibly_ have at the Diamond? Francis was still covering for them, even if he didn’t like it. Had he missed something and led the law toward them?  
Raven gestured to the empty seat beside her at the bar.  
She would have him ‘wait’ at the bar beside her to speak with ‘the owner’. Then if he didn't leave after twenty minutes of information gathering, someone would come by and inform him that the owner was busy. The usual tactic for prying eyes, though it was usually distraught widows or enraged eldest sons who came looking for trouble.  
“Right away, madam,” Tom turned away and strode off to fetch their guest.  
  
Raven waited at the bar, soon to need her glass refilled before a man sat beside her. Impatiently waiting for someone to come speak with him.  
At first glance- tired looking, unkempt, tall, handsome...  
Raven quietly cleared her throat to pull herself out of the thought.  
And caught his attention. She could see him do a double take as soon as he caught a glance at her. “Ma’am.”  
She just barely turned toward him and smiled before taking the last sip of her champagne.  
Disarming.  
Men never assumed malevolence from a pretty stranger.  
“There you are, Ms. Duponte. On the house.” A fresh glass was placed in front of her by the bartender.  
The detective’s expression shifted slightly, though she could see he was trying to hide it.  
“Duponte,” he said. “You come here often?”  
She gave him a half-shrug.  
“You don’t talk much, do you?”  
She signed _"Mute"_ to him, and he seemed to understand.   
"Alright, I can still work with that," he fished a notepad and pen out of his jacket and set it on the counter for her. He flashed his badge. “Detective ‘14’ Rivers.”  
Cute. He came prepared. He must've been good at his job.  
And ‘14’. That was interesting.  
 _"I take it you're not here for blackjack?"_ She wrote the question and turned the notepad toward him.  
"Just wanted to check the place out," he replied. "Heard rumors your family owns the casino."  
They did, for lack of a better term. Tao Cheng surrendered it easily and was still collecting some of the profits. He was too deep in the use of drugs to properly manage it anyway. _"We invested in it, yes."  
_ "See anything strange around here?" He asked and flagged down the bartender for a drink.  
She shook her head. It was so easy to lie without a voice. _"What exactly are you looking for?"  
_ "Just- rumors," the bartender put a drink in front of him and he drained half of it in one go. "I've heard things about the Vercetti family starting to look at this place. Wanted to make sure nobody was in danger."  
It was easy to tell that was a lie. He had a tell. Just the tone of his voice said everything.  
So… Vercetti sent him here. Trying to take some sort of blame off of themselves by pointing fingers. But what did they _do?_  
 _“What kind of danger would they be in?”  
_ “Going missing, for one,” the detective said. “Being found dead under a pier is another. And then there’s blatant murder attempts on businessmen-- business _owners_ around town.”  
None of those sounded familiar-- at least as of lately. Leaving someone to drown in high tide wasn’t their style; but slitting throats in dark places was. Quick, effective, and finite.  
 _“I can’t say I know anything about that.”_  
“You can’t _say_ much, can you?” He replied with a half-smirk- which disappeared when he saw the clear disdain on her face. “Sorry.”  
Raven rolled her eyes and scrawled something else on the paper before turning it toward him. _“I can’t help you, Detective Rivers. At least not until I know more too.”_ _  
_“Guess that means I’ll be seeing you again, then?” He asked, a hint of hopefulness in his tone.  
She couldn’t stay mad at that. That tiny implication of sincerity.  
Sure, he could come back. He didn’t have anything against the Family.  
 _“Why are you called ‘14’?”_ She turned the notepad to him again.  
He grimaced. “Served in the war. Killed fourteen Nazis in one minute. More than others in my platoon.”  
 _“How?”_ _  
_“A well placed grenade,” he replied with a wink.  
Raven replied to that with a coy look, and wrote out the phone number to the penthouse on the notepad before she passed it off to him. Underneath the number, _“XO, Nona”_  
She picked up her champagne glass once more, and that marked the end of their meeting.  
“‘Til next time, ‘Nona’,” he set some money on the counter for his drink and stood up to leave. Adding: “Be good, alright?” He left with noticeable tension in his shoulders after he’d read her flirtatious addendum.  
Cute.  
If he weren't a detective...  
  
Auri approached the bar moments after 14 had gone. Mr. Connors had informed her of the detective’s appearance; and since then, she’d blended into the crowd across the circular bar counter, observing the interaction and awaiting any distress signal from Raven. But saw none. “What’d he want?”  
 _“Vercetti,”_ Raven spelled out the name to her on one hand while she sipped her champagne. _“He has nothing on us.”  
_ “Good,” Auri replied. “We won’t have to cut him up, then.” It was hard to make lawmen disappear quietly.  
 _“I want you to keep an eye on him starting tomorrow night,”_ Raven told her. _“I want to know exactly who told him to come here.”_  
  
It was someone affiliated with the Vercetti gang.  
  
But with the big man dead, who would have the balls to make a move against the Dupontes?


End file.
